


Sketches and Drabbles

by curiositykilled



Category: Assassin's Creed, Supernatural - sort of
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Like you will be getting actual scribbles, M/M, Michael has daddy issues, awkward canon-smushing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:12:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Altair Ibn La Ahad meets Archangel Altair</p><p> </p><p>...I didn't really think the names-thing through.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. The Fall - sketch

     It was not the outcome he had anticipated, Michael could admit as he plummeted downwards with his wings fluttering uselessly and his sword and spear still clutched in his hands. Admittedly, he had never given any thought to how he might come to leave Eden on a permanent basis. It simply hadn’t deserved his attention  
But now, as the wind became a steady rush against his soul and the rush of battle gently eased out of his aura, he wasn’t certain that it was a terrible end. He imagined that, were he here, Father’s little son Adam would be crying. As it was, the archangel didn’t have that luxury, even as his half-numb mind mulled over recent events.  
     

     Lucifer.  


 _Lucifer_.  
     

     The light of heaven, the dawnstar, the apple of Eden’s eyes – _his baby brother. How? How could he do this?_ That Lucifer had been displeased at their new brother had hardly surprised any of them, but to do _this_? To forfeit completely his brothers and Father? Those who loved him beyond measure, bound or reason?  
It hurt somewhere Michael couldn’t quite place.

     He would have liked to ask Father, except it was an inane question. It would be shameful to intrude on Father’s time with such a ridiculous query – he had so little of it to give to them anyway – and Michael could hardly ask of his brothers the answer. He was the First Prince. He had to know what to do. And – oh. He was falling. Right. He had no one to ask because he was going to plummet straight into that hard, aqueous little marble Father had made for his new children.  
     

     Well, at least that conundrum was resolved.  
     

     Almost as soon as it was, though, he found his situation changing – whether for the better or worse was hard to tell at first. Something dark and empty dug into his wings, ripping through intangible feathers and bone and tugging tight. His fall halted abruptly, and within moments, he was rapidly ascending towards Eden. As soon as he reached the edge of the ephemeral city, the clawed hold released and he thumped heavily to the ground, his rent wing throbbing.  
     

     “Altaïr?” he groaned, immediately grimacing at the lack of eloquence.  
     

      He should have been up and moving again rather than lying lump-like on the ground, but there seemed to be a part of him missing and his wing hurt and he could only motivated himself enough to ask his brother what in their Father’s wide world just happened.  
   

      “Lucifer betrayed us,” Altaïr explained, his voice as impassive as if he were reporting that a brick in the garden wall had grown an inch more moss, though Michael could hear a current of red beneath the façade, “and led a legion against Eden. He has fallen, along with his followers. Gabriel has disappeared. Uriel, Raphael, and Ezio are unharmed save for minor scrapes. Father is with Adam and Eve.”  
   

     Michael continued laying there for a few more moments before he focused more entirely on the streak of jagged red he’d felt in Altaïr’s voice. There was anger there, yes, and betrayal, but there was also –  
   

     “You’re injured,” he blurted out, rolling up to face his younger brother.  
     

     As expected, there was a gap in Altaïr’s form, right where one black finger belonged, and the pain centered there. The younger archangel merely glanced at the injury before refocusing on Michael.  
     

     “Samael,” he explained, “He took the ring.”  
     

     Michael shoved himself to his feet then, searching his brother for some clue as to a course of action. Although he loved each of his brothers and would take any punishment for them, Altaïr had always been the one from whom he was most removed, despite their closeness in age. He knew, however unfairly, that it had to do with the fact that, while the rest of their auras were untainted white spheres of holy light, Altaïr’s was a void. Pure black and gaping, it was an uncomfortable anomaly in the purity of Eden, and Altaïr’s explanation of being ‘death’ and ‘the judge’ didn’t help assuage the wariness. Whatever those strange titles meant, they were hardly in line with Michael’s ‘mercy’ and Raphael’s ‘healer.’  
     

     “Why?” he demanded.  
     

      Altaïr gave a slight shrug, signaling that he’d at least temporarily exhausted his daily word quota. Giving up on that pursuit, Michael began the tired trudge to wherever his other brothers rested; with the gaping hole from Altaïr’s touch, he could hardly fly to them, and their walk was slow. As soon as they were within sight of the other three, the two eldest vaguely regretted arriving. A keening wail could be heard, and before Michael had even had a chance to sheath his sword, Raphael was upon them.  
   

      “Michael! Oh, thank Father,” he breathed, grabbing his brother in an uncommon embrace and wrapping his wings about the older angel.  
   

     Their wings slid into place like interlaced fingers, and Michael had to fend off the embarrassing desire to lean into Raphael’s touch and slump against his brother’s shoulder.

      He was the strongest – had to be the strongest. He couldn’t give in to weakness or weariness.  
     

      “Uriel’s a wreck. You have to help him,” Raphael explained, pulling away slightly.  
     

     Michael nodded mutely and dropped both sword and spear down to the ground before kneeling in front of his two youngest remaining brothers. Ezio was on his knees, Uriel wrapped in both his arms and wings. The slightest of them, Uriel had managed to curl entirely into Ezio’s embrace while weeping. Given the thousand eyes covering his body and the base of his wings, the tears were beginning to become an issue.  
     

      “S’my fault,” he whimpered, “S’all my fault. Thought – thought – he said he would – s’my fault – I f-failed – F-father’s – Father’s angry – so angry – terrible son –so bad – failure-”  
     

      “Uriel,” Michael murmured, gently stroking his brother’s loose hair, “Uriel, brother, listen to me.”  
     

      The weeping didn’t cease, but the angel seemed torn between pressing tighter against Ezio and leaning into Michael’s touch.  
     

     “Father loves you. You are a very, very good son,” Michael soothed.  
     

      “N-no,” Uriel whimpered, curling tighter in on himself, “I f-failed. I helped him! Terri-terrible son – should banish me – I don – I don’t deserve-”  
     

      “Uriel,” Michael snapped, gripping the many-eyed angel’s chin and turning it firmly towards him, “Do not dare utter those words. You are our brother, and we will always love you. Nothing will harm you. I swear it.”  
     

      There was a moment of hesitation, where a few of Uriel’s extra eyes seemed to be studying Michael and weighing him in a way he’d only ever felt from Altaïr’s faceless gaze. He bristled warily at the feeling but pushed it down and remained steady with his hand firm on his brother’s chin.  
Finally, Uriel sniffled dry his tears and moved to hunker down beside Ezio rather than on his lap. All of them looked battle-scuffed, and Michael felt a hint of guilt settle heavy in his middle. He knew, logically, that he was just as badly worn, if not worse, but he was made for this. He was built to take the blows and shelter his brothers. That they’d been harmed at all nagged at his conscience.  
     

      The guilt, though, was abruptly changed to sharp, brittle pain. Michael gasped, knocked forward in shock as three of his brothers did likewise. Altaïr, however, simply continued cutting.  
     

      “Alta- _what are you doing_?” Raphael demanded, incredulous.  
     

      The older archangel paused, still twisted around to reach the lowest set of wings on his back. His knife was halfway through the base of those wings, but he seemed unbothered by the pain searing through his aura and transferring onto his brothers.  
     

      “He is no longer our brother,” he answered simply and continued slicing through the thick bundles of muscle and bone.  
     

      “Wha- but what are you doing?” Ezio repeated.  
     

      An exasperated sigh huffed out of Altaïr, and he straightened reluctantly, as if he was explaining how to fly to cherubim.  
     

     “Lucifer has chosen his end. His punishment is a cage and disownment,” he explained shortly, “Thus-”  
     

     His hand gestured at the limply dangling wing before returning to his crude surgery. After a few moments of them all staring at him and gradually growing numb to the pain, Michael started at Uriel’s quiet hiss as his own blade sunk into the younger angel’s wing base.  
   

      It took some work, but they had all soon sawn off their wings and stood in various states of shock and exhaustion while the wounds wept. Later, Michael would muse that listening to Altaïr when the angel was already injured and they were all hollowed out by battling their baby brother was perhaps not their best idea. At the moment, though, they were too numb to consider another venture. The pain gave them a center, let them focus on something other than the fact that their beloved of beloveds had tried to murder each and every one of his siblings.  
     

     “I can heal those,” Raphael offered faintly.  
     

     No one replied, and they let the blood run.


	2. Theme 1: Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altair Ibn La Ahad meets Archangel Altair
> 
>  
> 
> ...I didn't really think the names-thing through.

The boy wept. He was small and thin for his age, but the scrawny body held a vastness that no mortal living could fathom, and Altair worried little. Instead, the angel waited till the boy had crumpled into a fitful sleep broken up by nightmares. It was before another of these started that the angel slipped into the boy’s mind.

He kept to the shadows, letting his natural emptiness suck in the darkness to give him the suggestion of shape, but he didn’t press too close to the feeble candlelight flickering beside the hunched child. He did, however, let his starry feet make a whisper of noise to alert the boy. Immediately, the dreamer jerked upright, brown eyes seeking out the intruder.

“Safety and peace, child,” Altair murmured, the greeting not so different from what he would tell his brothers.

“Who’re you? What’d’y’want?” the boy demanded, his words scrambling over each other in their haste to escape.

“My name is Altair, and I am here to help you.”


	3. Altair Concept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know the best thing about taking an independent art course? I can turn in things like this as a project :D
> 
>  
> 
> ~~and I don't have to explain to anyone that it's a character concept for a story based off of a series of video games about conspiracy theorists and aliens and a TV series about demons, angels and co-dependent brothers.~~


	4. Theme 2: Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels aren't supposed to love.

     

           It was wrong for an angel to fall in love. Ezio knew that, but he’d never cared much about listening to Michael’s rules. He had, once, but that was a long, long time ago. As it was, the way the blonde man’s eyes lit up with inspiration and desire set a smile on the archangel’s lips that warmed him more than his family’s protection ever had. Even now, crouched before a crested slab with a few white flowers at its head, he couldn’t help contentment humming through him as if the man’s hand had fallen against his shoulder once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, there are totally not a dozen little extra ships tucked away in this fic. Nooo


	5. Illustration for Chapter One




	6. Theme 3: Light

“It’s beautiful,” Uriel murmured, his hand clenching in Raphael’s dark robes.

The elder archangel gripped his brother, jaw clenched in agony at the dazed, transcendent expression on Uriel’s face as his soul slowly disintegrated between Raphael’s fingers. It would have been one thing if Michael had stabbed him, had run him through with a blade and left him to die. But this? This overwhelming shock of light? It left nothing for Raphael to piece back together, and he had to clench his eyes tight as Uriel’s body split into a thousand watts of light. When he opened them, nothing remained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I skipped this one. Oops. Also, several of the ones I've written but not posted have spoilers for upcoming chapters :( WHY ARE THERE NOT MORE MONDAYS INA WEEK?! ~~jk, Mondays suck~~


	7. Theme 4: Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik's personal fall

        He couldn’t see anything when he woke – could only feel a throbbing pulse through him that promised to quickly become unbearable – but his vision gradually returned. Biting down hard on human teeth, Malik pushed himself to his hands and knees before shoving to his feet. A broad patch of vermillion had soaked into the ground where his back had been, the edges feathered like wingtips.

_Kadar._

       The name ripped an aching hole through his chest, and Malik crumpled again. By the time Crowley came, the angel would have handed him over the executing blade, if only he still had one.


	8. Theme 5: Seeking Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of celestial Father-son fluff

“Father?” the small void-creature called, struggling to hide the tremor in its voice, “Father? What’s wrong with me?”

Hovering between planes of existence, its Father finally settled into a comfortable state as an expanse of empty space and studied his child. Even old as the smaller, powerful being was, it was just an infant in its Father’s eyes.

“You are my child,” he finally assured, “and I love you.”

Altair woke with a start, his breath catching on the backs of his teeth. Somehow, the ache in his soul was worse when it was a physical heart that hurt, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll see this again in a later chapter of FHS, so sorry about that. To make up for that, have a totally different drabble one click away!


	9. Theme 6: Break Away

Gabriel was not a coward. Yes, he spent most his days with the cherubim, singing Father’s praises – but he was still plenty able and willing to spar with even Altair (and then promptly run away because Lord Almighty, that angel was terrifying) or Michael (who was just _boring_ ). But that didn’t mean he’d fight his own family.

“What’s your name?” the young man – soon-to-be-old man – demanded again, waving the sword in Gabriel’s face.

The man was tiny and breakable though he thought himself a god, and Gabriel let a wide smirk curl over his lips.

“Loki. Loki Laufeyjarson,” he replied.


	10. Where the hell is this happening?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extended response to a question on For Heirs of Salvation

Since it's me and I just assume everyone can jump into my brain and completely understand what's going on when I tell them that three main characters in a fanfic have now gone universe hopping, I completely failed to explain this at all in For Heirs of Salvation. So, here goes:

 

Originally, the story takes place in just a complete alternate universe. The Assassins/Templars/hunters/etc all exist, but Desmond is more or less unaware of them. He knows vaguely of the hunters through Altair's oh-so-helpful mention of the Winchesters, but really, they're in an entirely different orbit than he is. Both the Assassins and Templars are also much, much smaller factions than in the second part of the story. They exist, but Abstergo is little more than a radical branch off of an overzealous church. Assassins, likewise, are generally viewed as overlooked social activists and atheists. To most the world, they're nothing. If someone mentioned "Abstergo" to an everyday person, they'd probably think they sneezed. Likewise with New Masyaf, the Assassins' website headquarters. This is the world most strongly centered on Supernatural. That said, why so few supernatural beings show up is because Altair's the archangel of death. Which pretty much means he's Death only with a bigger ego, easier-to-trip temper, and crazy strong sense of loyalty - in general, not the guy to screw with.

 

After he drags Desmond out of this world, though, they're closer to the AC-verse. However, instead of being...well, just "Assassins," they're an international network of hunters, specializing largely in demons. They are anti-supernatural of all kinds. Angels, demons, wendigos - to the Assassins, all these guys need to get the hell off Earth and leave humans alone. Templars are still religious fanatics, but they're much more organized in this verse. Instead of picketing veterans' funerals, they run one of the most successful international corporations and have hundreds of local youth and welfare programs throughout the world, all with at least subtle religious undertones. Think of them like hyped-up, uber-powerful missionaries (with all the pitfalls  _that_ entails). They kidnap Desmond as in the games, but instead of plugging into Altair's memories, they go for Ezio's. Why Altair doesn't stop them/what happens after is explained in Chapter 18. Right now, the Assassins are working to find the piece of Eden as in the game, only for slightly different reasons...okay, sort of vastly different. But it's to save the world, so there's that.

 

Hope that helps clear some of that up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone ever has questions, please post them on here or FHS. I'm really, really, really bad at explaining things in stories (especially because fanfics are kind of my relaxed/lazy writing in between work on the stories I really care about), and unless you're like "yo bicth, thsi is lyke shiiit" I won't be offended. Promise. (especially because the most offensive part of that is the spelling). So, ask away! Same goes for anything you want drawn. My tablet's a bit of a brat, but when I've got an independent art hour every day, and I'm more than happy to use some of it to draw things for you guys.


	11. Enter Team Free Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a never-to-be chapter featuring the Supernatural gang

                Sam paused, glancing between the empty desk and the windowseat on which Dean was stretched, a book open on his lap and bottle nearby. He’d only been downstairs for an hour or so, cleaning up the basement and panic room.

                “Where’s Bobby?” he asked.

                “Supply run,” Dean answered without glancing up.

                Giving a short nod, Sam wandered further in to check what Dean was reading. At the title, his eyebrows shot skyward. Sure, he knew his big brother wasn’t actually an _idiot_ , but, well -

                “ _Paradise Lost_?” he demanded incredulously.

                Dean’s eyes flicked up, but he didn’t move otherwise, and Sam raised his hands placatingly. Turning, he fetched the chair from the other side of Bobby’s desk and dropped it down beside the windowseat before sitting down himself with a leg on either side of the back and his arms folded on top.

                “So, what’s with the change in reading material? _Playboy_ to Milton is a pretty big shift,” he prompted.

                A sigh huffed out of Dean and he stood, tossing the book onto the windowseat in the same motion. Once again, Sam’s eyebrows quirked upwards at the reaction.

                “I was just curious,” Dean muttered as he stalked off.

                Before he could pass the threshold, though, the house started shaking. Their glances met for the briefest second before Dean was diving for the drawer in Bobby’s desk that held the Colt, and Sam was lunging for the knife he’d left in an upper drawer.

                “Those will not help you,” an even, smooth baritone warned.

                Freezing, both brothers turned slowly face to the newcomer.

                The angel that stood before them was a little taller and more muscular than Castiel – in all honesty, he didn’t seem _that_ far off from Dean – but he wore only a loose t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare and a hint of a tattoo visible on his chest. Still, Dean found himself instinctively calling for Castiel. As if hearing his thoughts, the angel’s gold eyes flicked over to him.

                “Nor will he,” he added impassively.

                Swallowing, Dean nodded and kept praying anyway.

                “What do you want?” Sam demanded, grip shifting on his knife.

                The angel didn’t respond except to walk forward, covering the space between them in perhaps three efficient strides, and press two fingers to each of their foreheads. Immediately, they were sucked through a vacuum, faces bleeding into the star-spotted black surrounding them, and ears ringing with a strange, eerie shrieking.

                When they landed, both stumbled against the hard stone that met their feet. Ahead of them, the angel stood waiting silently, face smooth and clear of even the heavy frown that always hung around Castiel.

                “Where are we?” Sam demanded.

                “Masyaf,” the angel replied simply.

                Between the brothers, a look of mutual unknowing passed before they turned their attention back to the waiting angel.

                “Uh-huh, and why?” Dean prompted.

                There was a quiet ruffle, much like a softer version of the sound of Castiel’s arrival, but though they glanced around, no other angel could be seen.

                “This is where you will end this,” the angel explained cryptically, “as Lucifer and Michael’s vessels.”

                Dean barked out a short hack of laughter, curiosity suddenly cooling.

                “Ha – yeah, you might’ve missed this, but _we’re not doing that_. We’ve both said ‘no,’” he corrected shortly.

                Before he could turn and try to find Castiel to zap them back to normality, thunder cracked above their heads, its jagged lightning burning the shadows of twelve wings against the castle’s stone walls. Swallowing, Dean stopped as the angel took one step forward, the afterimage of singed wings still floating in front of his eyes.

                “Because of you, I have lost two of my brothers, a third is struggling to deal with your pet angel’s rebellion, and two others will be lost if you do not remove your heads from your asses and follow your destiny,” the angel snarled, suddenly much closer, “The next time you are given a chance to say yes, you will. And if you fail to, not only will I let you watch each other be ripped limb from limb, but Castiel will burn with you.”

                 Before either brother could offer a rejoinder, the darkness tugged around them and dropped them, hard, into the Springer house.

“H – what was that?” Dean demanded, stumbling slightly and catching himself on Bobby’s doorframe.

                Something about that trip had felt different than the usual angel-zapping – and it wasn’t just the angry angel and dark castle. With Castiel, it always seemed like a firm suggestion that they subconsciously agreed to – but this angel had felt like he was ripping them out of their present, and whether they wanted to or not, they were going with him. Across from him, Sam seemed to be feeling the same; he was bent double with one mitt clinging to the frame.

                “Sam?” Dean started, moving towards his brother.

                A flurry of wings and a _thud_ announced Castiel’s return. Helping to prop Sam up, Dean glanced over and immediately froze. Castiel was pushing himself off from lying prone on the floor, and he looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with King Kong before getting there.

                “The hell happened to you?” Dean demanded.

                “Altair,” the angel groaned, stumbling once he’d regained his feet, “He…does not appreciate meddling.”

                The angel swayed, taking a step to the side to keep from tumbling over. His hand reached out automatically to rest against Sam’s forehead, and while Sam jerked upright, Castiel seemed to crumple into himself. Dean lunged, dropping Sam’s arm and barely catching Castiel’s back.

                “Whoa, now, Cas,” he soothed, gesturing for Sam to come help him.

                Between the two of them, they managed to drag the angel – as gently as one could drag – to the couch. Dean nudged Castiel’s feet up and slipped a pillow under his head while Sam stepped back, suddenly useless when he wasn’t hauling the drained angel around.

                “So, Altair?” he prompted, “Who’s that?”

                Dean shot him a look, and Sam’s forehead scrunched quizzically. It wasn’t like Dean ever gave anyone a chance to rest before interrogating them or demanding favors.

                “Altair is the archangel of death,” Castiel explained hoarsely, “He is Michael and Lucifer’s brother.”

                Sam’s frown returned, heavier with confusion.

                “But we met Death. They look nothing alike,” he protested.

                Even supine and exhausted, Castiel had no problem making Sam feel like an idiot with just his facial expression.

                “Altair is the _angel_ of death. The Death you have met is formed only from the archangel’s finger,” he snapped.

                Dean’s eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowing in confusion.

                “Come again?” he prompted.

                “During the Fall,” Castiel started with a loud sigh, “all the archangels except Gabriel fought against Lucifer and his legions. For the most part, they were physically fine, but Samael cut off Altair’s finger in order to get the ring that you saw. It was a gift, from our Father to Altair, and Samael thought that, without it, Altair would be powerless.”

                Sam turned and paced one long stride before pivoting back, rubbing at his chin.

                “You’re saying they made another death out of a ring and an archangel’s freaking pinky?” he demanded.

                “It was not his little finger,” Castiel answered, his low brow furrowing slightly, “but yes. Altair is infinitely more dangerous than Death, and you appear to have displeased him.”

                Dean laughed, then, and his face underwent a complicated contortion of expressions before he finally stopped on one with eyebrows partially lifted and lips tilted upwards.

                “We pissed off the angel of death?” he chuckled, “Of course.”

                Frown deepening, Castiel reached a hand out to grip Dean’s wrist as that hand slipped up to rub at Dean’s lips.

                “His presence changes nothing, Dean. You are still free to make your own choice,” he reassured, gravelly voice firm and urgent.

                Dean hesitated, gaze lingering on the earnest blue eyes staring him down. In their navy depths, he could see all the times he’d let Castiel down, all the times that he’d demanded the angel drop everything he was doing and help them, all the times he’d thrown Castiel to the dogs and then ripped him apart himself.  _“Castiel will burn with you.”_ Swallowing, he tried to ignore the warmth around his wrist and the cold coil in his gut and offered what he hoped was a convincing grin.

                “’course,” he lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write this a while ago, but it'll never be in FHS. In all honesty, I'm not really sure where it'd be if it were. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's the start. I realized belatedly that some of the stuff in here isn't mentioned till later chapters in FHS, but oh well.  
> Unlike FHS, this will get updated according to how I feel, though I will try to only post a most of one written piece and one drawing a day. That said, some weeks you might get 20 chapters and some none.


End file.
